Vanishing Point
by himitsutsubasa
Summary: Alex gets burned. Yassen rescues a blast from his past. Sergei is set on the trail of a ghost. Syrai looks for an old comrade. They all meet at a vanishing point. OC/OC and A/Y. Complete, for now.
1. Missed Chances

From the reminisces of Sergei Ivanov.

Chance encounters make up our lives. They happen at the coffee counter, with the person in front of us in line. Or on the metro, when we bump into strangers. They happen when we look up, see an angel, and then blink. They're gone. Chance encounters happen all the time. But we never pay any attention. We walk right past and think of ourselves. Then they're gone, out of our lives and into the flood of billions. What are the chances the paths will cross again? Too small to measure.

I am one of them.

* * *

_Six Months Ago, London._

I sat in the office of Tulip Jones. MI6's newest head. It had been ten years since the event of "Scorpia Rising" as that Anthony Horowitz called it. I chided myself for letting him have free reign in the second half of that book. It was just horrible.  
The last month I had been in Syria. Nothing big. Just setting loose what might be the predecessor of World War Three, but that would be for our descendents to discover.

"Alex, you have been one of our greatest agents." Something sharp pricked my neck. I realized what was happening. I reached behind me trying to grab the person who tranquilized me. No one was there.

"The past fourteen years have been wonderful," and I knew what was coming next. The world swam. This was a fast acting one. A really fast acting one.

"But you have been fired." I felt the tranquilizers take hold of my system and shut it down. I looked at Ms. Jones one last time. Her eyes were full of tears. I knew why she had hugged me the moment I stepped through the door. She was the only one who cared when I was a teen.

"I'm sorry." She looked like someone had killed her puppy. In which case, I was her puppy.

'I'm done with sorry." I choked out as the world faded to black. Words were imprinted on the backdrop of eyelids.

**Burn Notice.**

* * *

_Six Months Ago, Morocco._

I sat on a crate under the hot sun. In any second, the official would pass on a street three blocks away. I would be able to see him from my high perch like an eagle sees his prey. He would roll down his window. He would look out. He would squint at the sun. He would be dead.  
The sun made even me sweat. Unlike others, I did not chew gum or smoke. That left evidence. That was stupid. I kept the sniper trained on the street. Any second now…

Finally, the car pulled around the corner. I checked the flags that appeared naturally in the area. Laundry was my best friend on these jobs. I aimed and fired.

Another job well done for Yassen Gregorovich. I slipped into my car and started the smooth engine. Moroccan cuisine wasn't my favorite. I could be in Paris and spend the rest of the afternoon enjoying one of my favorite pastimes. Watching people be people. Retirement was nice. I only did a few jobs to keep my hand steady and gain a few favors.

My cell phone buzzed.

"Yassen." The only people who knew my number were those who needed it. An Irish voice came over the line. My blood chilled. MI6.

"Please! Don't hang up. Alex is going to get a burn notice. I don't know about you, I know there is a plethora of assassins ready to take him out." I felt a drip of loyalty trickle into my river of consciousness.

"Please, help him." I grunted. I hung up. Now, to book a ticket to London and procure two fake passports. I would have to cash in a few favors.

* * *

_Six Months Ago, Seattle._

I sat on my lovely vintage chaise reading Wuthering Heights.

By "lovely vintage" I meant "old". "Chaise" meant "couch" and "reading" meant "re-reading for the umpteenth time". I remembered the words of a Miss Sabina Pleasure (really, how more suggestive a name could you get?).

"Get a boyfriend already."

Yes, that was why we got along so well. I kept her from dating in the double digits and she told me to go get some. That and the talk of a Mr. Alex Rider.

That week we spent in Bangkok had been fun. With Alex, you could expect at least one helicopter blowing up and at least two high speed car chases. No romance. But that was my policy, not his. I scanned the shelves.

I had every book by that Anthony Horowitz. The last one had been horrid. I wondered if Alex let the man have free reign or that he vanished halfway through the tale. I fingered one of my least favorite, but most loved books, Eagle Strike. Why did Yassen have to die? He was, by far, my favorite character (after Alex, but that was only because I met him).

"Miss Independent, Miss Self-Sufficient, Miss Keep-Your-Distance, Miss Unafraid, Miss Out-Of-My-Way…" I let the ring tone play. Carrie, the technology girl at the CIA, had a strange sense of humor.

That is the last time I let her service my phone, I thought. Eventually, I picked up.

"Syrai."

"Hello, Agent Archer." I smiled. I had my father to thank for that one.

"Yes, Ms. Turner?" I fished in my closet for a jacket. This wasn't a social call.

"I have a job for you. Come in. Now." Her voice was twice as tense. That tension in her voice only appeared two times: my first mission and my first mission with Alex Rider.

"I'm guessing a hit. And, Rider is involved." I got a noncommittal "hmm" for that.

I left the flat knowing I was right. She wouldn't have said a word if I wasn't right. I remembered the dark tunnels under New Orleans. He was lucky I didn't turn in for the night. I fit wasn't for me he would have been royally dead. Not even the bloody Queen of England could have stopped it. If anything, he owed me one. I didn't even get a chance to collect yet.

"What did you get yourself into this time, Rider?"

* * *

_Six Months Ago, Moscow._

I pulled the trigger. Another useless guard dead. Sometimes I wondered if this was getting to be a national phenomenon. Useless help. The Americans finally had something right.

"Ivanov!" I walked back into the hangar. My army boots sent reverberations throughout the building. Three men, who I had come to know as "the men who will not be signing my checks", stood by 1,000kilos of coke. Not the drinking kind that Alex Rider loved. I only knew that from my trainer.

He had been the best of the best. I was just as good. Retirement suited him. I was taking the world by storm. The next assassin that everyone feared. I smiled. Three shots rang out and another team of gangsters appeared to collect the payload. I stood there, reticent.

"Your money is deposited." The boss looked at the bodies in disgust. I walked away. Another day, another job. At this rate, I would be joining my trainer in retirement in no time.

A voice carried me back from my dreams of martinis poolside. "Can I count on you to be on my side next time?"

I didn't answer.


	2. Sergei Ivanov

I sat in my plush office. Yes, sometimes, you could get a nice office in the business district of Russia. It isn't all wild landscape dominated by snow and wilderness. The metropolitan districts bustle with nightlife. High class take me homes are on every corner and clubs blast music to the dim skies. But that is not relevant.

I sat in my office, at a well known firm that you don't know of, in the chair my master left behind when he retired. I waited for my next client. They were a magnate that if I mentioned you wouldn't know. Underground meets daylight here, in the perpetual twilight.

"Mr. Ivanov" I saw my client in the door way. He had a suit that I thought would be nice, excepting the residual blood splatter on his elbow. My attention was drawn away from that by the tall blonde on his arm. She was different one from the blonde he had last time. If I recalled this was his new interest. Last month he liked American girls. That was difficult to clean up, I was sure.

"Mr. Smirnoff." Not a real name. I grinned. The sharks grin that I plastered on every time. It reminded them of who I was. I wasn't the deejay at an Armenian's acquittal party. I was the one tearing it up with untraceable gunfire.

"This is Celeste." He gestured to the blonde in the fetching pink dress. A regular runway model. She stood a full head taller than him. Make that head and shoulders. Smirnoff was a short man with a Napoleonic complex. I shook hand with him and then turned to Celeste. She took my hand and sighed.

"Archie," probably his most recent identity, "his aura is strong. Can I?"

I looked at Smirnoff. What the hell was she asking?

"Celeste is a psychic." And, I'm a prostitute with runway legs.

"She loves reading people's auras and fortunes." This just showcased Smirnoff's tastes, I don't even need to mention the boa constrictors. Oh, wait, I just did. But, against my better judgment, I nodded letting them take seats on the other side of the desk. Ebony imported from Africa. I'm quite proud that I can see my reflection in it. It makes reading expressions easier when I look the other way. She didn't let go. I decided to humor her.

"Read." She set about gladly. Her eyes fixed on my face and drifted out of focus.

"You are very strong. The reading is blurry but I will try. I see a fish in your future, a big red fish. There is a cloud of colorful dots. Then I see a flying house and a cheetah sleeping on a bed." I wounded if she was a nut. Smirnoff just looked at her kindly.

"In your past, I see an island. A tropical place." That just about described every vacation I had.

"There is a girl in a red dress and James Bond. I see a palace of diamond and pearl." Okay, she was strange. I'm sure I would remember James Bond and a palace of shiny stuff.

"I'm picking up on the girl again. I see red. Lots of it and it binds you to her." I thought of all the people I killed. Women specifically, it was a short list. They were just casualties in the cross fire typically. Faces without names.

"And it is gone." She dropped her hands and blinked at me. Her eyes went back into focus. I was left wondering if she was alright in the head.

"Thank you, Celeste." I patted her hands. "Mr. Smirnoff. You wanted to discuss a job?" The pudgy man smiled. My father said sharks were born swimming.

* * *

I was perched on top of a building. The target was getting off work and would be at the cinema with his son. It would be a pity to scar him but his father needed to get a mind blowing spa package. I was situated exactly across the street. It would be a clear shot and a quick getaway. His guards would not expect him to be attacked from above in a crowd. I could pick him off like shooting bottles on a fence. I never missed, even then. I trained the gun on the man, someone you don't know. And in the instant he stepped into range, an expanding bullet slammed into his head.

It made a quick job of his brains. His kid screamed dropping the soda in his hand. I noticed he had a red shirt. At least he would avoid stains. I looked up from my kill to the slick posters on the wall of the theater. It was the picture of a house raised by thousands of colorful balloons. Who knew? Celeste was right about one thing.

By the time the guards discovered the position of the sniper, I was driving to my city apartment. I would have a nice dinner then off to bed. Who knew, I might have a pick me up. There was a sexy redhead on the corner. I opened my passenger door. She was about to state her prices when I muttered, "Money's not an issue." She smiled revealing a slightly stained smile and got in. Forget dinner. I was going straight to dessert.

In the bedroom, she struggled off her coat and tossed in the floor. I didn't know her name, I didn't need to. She crossed her legs, which were shapely, were covered in leopard print tights. I grabbed a pack of condoms, you could never be too careful.

* * *

After wards, I sent her on her way with her money. She walked off in a staggered lope. She was new at the profession. I grabbed the remaining half of Chardonnay and went to the restroom. How about a long soak in the tub? As I passed my bedroom, I noticed something the entertainment left behind. A pair of tights. I just realized they were cheetah print.

A cheetah on the bed. Great. She wasn't crazy. I took a swig from the bottle. Red wine was always good for a head ache. In my book, anyway.

I took a look at the bottle. Herring winery. An unknown, cheap winery.

Red.

Herring.

Damned fish.

Damned blonde.

* * *

Okay. I apologize for the profanities and references. That is why it is for teens.


	3. Alex and Yassen

_Alex Rider_

Alex felt something hard against his back. It was not his bed. He sat bolt upright. Not his bed. Everything came swimming back. Alex was burned. BURNED.

He looked around; it was a nondescript hotel room. Red and gold coloring on everything. The bathroom probably had those little soap things you found in every hotel. To his trained eye, Alex guessed three stars. He checked his pockets. Nothing.

It dawned on Alex that he really was burned.

"Think calmly, Alex. This isn't the first time you have been in a strange place with nothing in your pockets," he thought to himself. Actually, he had been in this situation more often than he would like to admit. The last time, a CIA agent taught him a trick to keep his identity and sense of self intact.

It occurred to him to check to room for bugs and cameras. After five minutes, I was satisfied that they only had sound bugs. As long as I stayed silent, I would be fine.

He looked at his shoes. They were the same shoes that he always wore. Alex pulled them off.

He pulled out the sole and the plastic shield, underneath was a small compartment. Thank you, CIA. Alex pulled out the twenty pound note. He would need that. The other papers could stay in there, for now.

Alex grabbed anything that could be useful. That composed of a note pad and pen. There was a tube of lotion and a bar of soap in the restroom. He took that too. Alex checked the drawers and closet again.

He wondered how the mini-fridge had escaped his notice. he pulled out a bottle of water. There wasn't much else he could use. Alex thanked the CIA again for the ingenious distraction tactic. He had a few ideas that involved slipping and sliding.

Alex slipped all of it into my jacket pockets. Thank goodness they didn't take it. Making his way down the corridor was easy. There was no one watching. Eventually, he hit the street. It was there that Alex realized he should have been more careful in the past fourteen years.

He saw assassins and agents from all over. The man on the lobby was probably from the French Mafia. The woman at the tube entrance was MI6. They were everywhere. Time to lose them.

* * *

_Yassen Gregorovich_

Yassen watched Alex leave the building. He wasn't an idiot. He was going to swoop in and rescue Alex when thing s got out of hand. Not before. The shock would stun the young man. Yassen thought back to the past twelve years. Twelve years that Alex thought he was dead.

Not now.

He was needed.

Yassen sighed as Alex decided to walk. Smart move.

* * *

_Alex Rider_

He ducked behind a trash can avoiding the cat that was sleeping there. A flustered man ran past shouting some things that will not be translated, in French. Mafia alright.

Alex slipped out and released a breath. Close call, but now all the tails were gone. He was in the China town district, which he thought was extremely lucky. He stopped by a Chinese restaurant and ordered the cheapest thing on the menu.

He left the shop carrying an order of veggie stir fry and loose change. It didn't make a big dent in his wallet. He footed it over to the tube and to his house. Or what was left of it.

MI6 took the burn notice seriously. There was nothing but ashes.

* * *

_Yassen Gregorovich_

Alex finally saw it.

Yassen wanted to have been there the moment the boy (he would always be a boy) stepped off the train. But he kept to the shadows. Alex was frozen to the spot as tears threatened to pour. The mementos of everything they boy loved was gone.

His feet were glued.

Yassen shook his head.

How did things turn out this way?

* * *

_Alex Rider_

He stood for what seemed like forever. It was all gone. GONE. Jack and Ian were in there. Photos and souvenirs were burned to dust.  
He finally plucked up the courage to pick through the ashes.

He only found a box. The lid was firmly clamped down even if the lock was undone. Alex squeezed the lotion out of the tube and rubbed it into the hinges. They loosened the hinges and the lid was pried off. Alex almost cried when he saw what was inside. It was a photo of his parents.

He sucked it up and tucked it into his shoe. Where could he go? Tom was a good friend but he wouldn't be safe. Alex sat on a cinderblock and cradled his head in his hands. There was nothing left. He heard the sound of crunching glass.

* * *

_Yassen Gregorovich_

Yassen made his move earlier than anticipated. He pulled Alex out of the line of fire and broke into a run. The twenty-six year old was trailing along behind him.

"Who are you?" The hand didn't try to pull away. Clearly, Alex was smarter than he used to be.

"An old friend." The boy turned into dead weight. Yassen towed him along and slipped into an alley.

"Yassen?" The eyes widened and the pupils dilated to take in his face. The face morphed into a mask of shock.

"Yes?" Yassen didn't want to say more than necessary. There were the sounds of foot falls and he pulled Alex closer. They entered the alley way from the sound of it. Yassen weighed his options.

He wasn't as fast or as strong as he used to be. A fist fight would be easy but the man had a gun. He could use his gun and attract every listening ear in a one block radius. Silencers only served to make a big gun sound like a slightly smaller big gun. Ergo, it was useless in a residential setting. His car was a block away. If they ran, could they make it?

Alex lost his lack-luster look and reached into his coat. He pulled out a bottle of water and soap. What was the kid thinking?

* * *

What is Alex thinking? Okay, since no one reads this I'm going to putter about and be... well,... me.

_Character Ages?_

Sergei is 27.

Alex is 26.

Yassen is 45.

Syrai is 23.

_Why OC?_

Because I don't recall MI6 having an ex-teen female spy. Sabine doesn't count. I don't hate her, but she just isn't BAMF enough. Sorry.

_Why America?_

Most fan girls are in the United States. My readers are also on that side of the pond.

_Are you British?_

No?

_Why do you refer to it as "that side of the pond"?_

Because it is "that side of the pond".

_I thought it was Seattle._

Okay, I will ignore you.

_Any cool gadgets? Specifically for Syrai?_

Of course. Smithers is always awesome. Syrai has some intersting stuff.

_What kind of name is Syrai?_

Syrai is Syrai. She can explain.

_What's with the perspective change?_

_Please review. I don't want to be lonely._

_We're the same person._

I know. That's why I don't want to be alone with you.


	4. Find?

Okay, anyone who can find this fiction gets my eternal thanks and maybe a rainbow cupcake.

The story opens with Alex as an au pair to two twin geniuses, which is part of a mission from MI6. He is not allowed into certain parts of the house and to that he pays no mind. His employer is making moves and Alex does his best to get out.

However, he wakes up strapped down and his suspicions are confirmed. His employer is a mad man who wants to inject Alex with a serum to turn him into a child. He comments on what a lovely toy Alex would make. Alex is of course completely disturbed by the bloke's ravings.

And, Yassen is a BAMF. He breaks in, saving Alex, just because his ninja stalker tendencies are awesome that way. The employer ends up dead and the scientist is well… we will ignore what happened to him. His sons are totally okay with it and even thank Alex since their father was trying to lay hands on one of the twins.

And, the blip pops up. All the children were the house hold staff, de-aged into perfect, model-like children. And guess what? Yassen got shot full of the stuff too.

And, the feelings grow. Alex and Yassen have a heart to heart. The twins run diagnostics as Yassen de-ages and discover Yassen has de-aged to eighteen (still older than Alex). During that time, Alex finds himself playing house with the children and Yassen joins their little makeshift family. Slowly, but surely, they fall in love.

And, the break appears. Alex, not being able to escape, leaves to return to MI6.

And, the happy ending finally happens. Alex moves to California with the Pleasures, but he is to discover something strange. The Pleasures won't be living with him. Instead, Yassen will be his new housemate, complete with fake papers and name. His name was James Gregory or something like that.

And, MI6 has to interfere. Not really, Mrs. Jones, finally getting a chance to tell Alex exactly how she felt about exploiting him, bought the house and arranged for Alex's, and Yassen's, permanent residency there. Yep, she put both their names on the deed.

And, sexytimes ensue.

So find it for me? Or if you recognize it please message me. I loved it to bits, but was too busy to write it down. And the story starts next chapter.


	5. Syrai Archer

_Six months ago, France._

Syrai watched Alex got on a train to Russia. The blonde was getting onto the train speaking to someone she couldn't see. Her telephoto lens let her get a good shot of him from the top of a building two blocks away. Alex was still his blonde haired, brown eyed, "I need protection or someone is going to bend me back wards over a table" self. She was just glad to know he was being protected. SH egave him a once over to see how beign burned had affected him.

"Well, my dear, you filled out very nicely."

* * *

_Five months ago, Syria._

Syrai was glad to finally visit her name sake. The best part of this was she blamed her father for everything. Shje would have expected the CIA agent to have better spelling. Somehow, he had botched it up and told her mother to name her "Syrai" rather than Syria, the war ridden country he was visiting at the time. Then he got himself promptly shot by Japanese ninjas. Because: was there any other nationality of ninja?

Alex's last mission had been to this location. The CIA was that up to date that way. Still, she bided her time. Her best hunts were always the ones when she wasn't really trying. And, making her handler send her all around the world to exotic places was the best way to annoy them.

Someone needed to mess with the CIA, who better than an agent? And right now she was enjoying a vacation on a war ridden country. Yep, some things didn't change.

Her phone ringed playing the unaltered company tune.

"Archer?" There was a tentative sound on the other end of the line, Sabina.

Syrai sighed. "Hello, Sab. What's up?"

"I just got a post card…" Syrai imagined that Sabina was freaking out right now and the only relay way to get her to talk was to slap her. That wasn't possible so Syrai went on to recount the past five failure boyfriends.

"That last one was not a twink!" Syrai recalled seeing that one getting bent over backwards in a way the spine just shouldn't go. At least, anyone with a normal spine shouldn't go.

"Uh, yeah, he was. You picked him because he looked like Al.

Sabina conceded, "Fine, he did. But, that's not it." She huffed. "I got a post from Al the other day."

Syrai choked on her soda. "What?"

* * *

_Three months ago, Canada._

"Would you like that sent up?" Syrai snapped back to the sommelier and his sweet smile. If only he wasn't gay and his ex wasn't an abusive bastard.

She gave him her kindest smile in return. "No, I'll take it up myself."

* * *

_One month ago, Australia._

"How have you had thirteen narrow misses in the past three months?" The phone was on speaker letting Syrai lounge in a hot tub and enjoy he clear weather.

Syrai sipped her wine. Ugh… to fruity. "I did?"

Ms. Turner seemed very unhappy. Her divorce was going roughly if her attitude was any indication. "Well, don't lose him this time."

Five months of non-stop nagging. Didn't it occur to them that Alex Rider didn't have to be eliminated?

No it never occurred to them. Unlike, Tulip, who Syrai had taken an immediate liking to, Turner didn't care too much about what became of their ex-school kid agent. That project had failed and was banned. That didn't stop paratroopers from storming Sabina's apartment looking for her a week after she turned eighteen. Why waste good meat?

"Need I remind you: it took the combined forces of all of you ten years to find Osama? I'm one girl up against the world." She didn't smoke but she wished she did. One more way to annoy the higher ups was to die of cancer.

"You're supposed to be the best."

Syrai took a long sip. "So my ex's say." Not that she had any ex's to vouch.

"Just stop screwing around get it done." Turner hung up.

Syrai really did wish she smoked.

"Who said I was screwing around?" She asked her wine glass.

* * *

WALL IS UP. Syrai's appearance in this fiction. She likes to keep to the shadows ijn this and anyone who has been on my LJ will know she doesn't shy away from certain language.

It was a pain to type since HT was practically epileptic over the coarser language and Syrai wasn't really caring. Mimi just ingored them and pointed out my time line errors.

Thanks to Emmy1000. I can't reply because you weren't signed in, so I offer you an imaginary cupcake!

Yeah, I just confirmed I should never ever bake and there aren't any bakeries that make colorful cupcakes.

Frankly, I think that's discrimnation. What about the poor little girls and all their glitter and unicorns? What if they wanted a rainbow cupcake? I'll stop rambling now and get you the next part.


	6. Celestial Blue

Smirnoff's eyes popped out of his head when I showed up at his door.

"The hit was great. The pay is in. I want to talk to Celeste." He looked at me knowingly.

"She predicted correctly. It is her gift. The strangest things are reality." I nodded as he let me in. If she was right about the future, then what of the past?

Celeste sat on a golden brocade chaise in the lounge. She looked plain without make up but it suited her better than eye gouging red lipstick.

"I believe my prediction was correct? They always are." Gone was the blank look. This was a woman who knew her power. "I also believe you are here to ask about the past." I nodded. She pointed to a chair.

"Sit." I did so obediently. I didn't believe in psychics and all that but she was right. And it was unnerving. Her hands reached out feeling the air around me. She sighed in exasperation.

"The signal is not as strong, but I can make out a few shapes." She closed her eyes this time.

"Better." Her brows furrowed and drew together.

"I see a girl again. I can see above her shoulders though. Short black hair. And the same red dress. There is a boat. I see water. Crystal blue. James Bond speeds by in his boat. It is just like that movie. Then there are fish. I'm under water. Then there's a palace, covered in gems. And huge stone elephants. They are taller than myself." She tightened her face. And then sighed. She looked sad, or disappointed.

"I was interested in those memories. They looked very fun." What? They were fun? So much for my victim of violence theory. I must have been too silent because she watched me intently. "Say something."

"I don't know what to say." That was the honest truth. A girl? She was kidding right? She wasn't.

"I find her face is blurry in the visions. You don't remember her. But the red surrounding you is more than a billowing skirt. It's... the red thread." Smirnoff, who I had forgotten, watched in fascination and piped up. I was glad he asked; it saved me the trouble.

"The thread is what binds lovers together. She looked young body wise. It is safe to say she was in her early teens. She was not particularly memorable but your spirit knew her. You want to look back at least five years. The spirits say that, not me." I dismissed the vacations involving water and elephants in the past five years. That narrowed it down to a handful. They were mostly in Asia.

That meant Thailand, India, and the Philippines. The underwater made me think of my diving experiences. I was sure that was snorkeling in Thailand and diving in the Philippines. Adding a palace, which I assumed could be a diamond encrusted temple, I thought Thailand. I went there twice.

One was little less than fifteen years ago and the other was ten years ago. I was fourteen and nineteen, respectively. I had a better bet at when I was fourteen. A young adolescent body would have appealed to me then. The red dress would have made her memorable. Even if subconsciously.

"What are you thinking?" Celeste's voice pulled me back into real life.

"I remembered every vacation I could recall. No girl, but I have a pretty good idea." She beamed at me as I got up to leave.

She charged me for services rendered. Luckily, my job pays well and it was like giving out spare change.

"Tell me if you find her." She called after me. I heard something that sounded like I was a living love story. It bit me in the arse because it was true, I thought in my car. I decided to go back to the apartment. I was going to book the first flight and go to Thailand.

It was crazy. I sat down in front of my laptop. There was a ticket for a plane that landed in Taipei. Then there would be a transfer to Thailand. I looked through a photo album there was a word in the back ground of one the photos of my parents. Squinting I could make it out. It sounded familiar. Then it hit me. That was the specific part of Thailand. I started typing in my credit card number.

Wait what? What was I going to do? Comb the country for a girl who was likely to be a local as a tourist? This whole thing was insane. I closed the lap top. Was I going to drop everything because a psychic told me to? Sure she was right a out a few things. Big whoop. It was all one big coincidence. The poster at the theater could be seen by anyone clubbing, almost all girls wore cheetah print. And the fish? There weren't as many ways to explain a red fish but there were some.

Yes, I wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't going on a man hunt across Eurasia for a girl I only met once. She could be horribly ugly. She could be abrasive. She could be married. She could be dead. I couldn't even recall her face. What the hell was I doing?

My hands moved of their own accord, they clicked by one the purchase before I could stop them. Damn. The phone rang but I let the machine take it.

"Celeste here. I just thought you were going to have second thoughts, so I wanted to say this: It is worth it. I met my match back in high school and those were the happiest years of my life. He died in a car accident, but I think of him every day. Finding the right person is the best thing you can do." There was the click of the receiver and she hung up.

I sat there in the silence. Forget the clairvoyant or psychic or whatever she was. It wasn't a supernatural force, it was me. I wanted this hunt.

Let the chase begin.

* * *

WALL IS UP.

I'll have you know I'm messing with the time line here. Sergei's takes place over a few days. Syrai's and the Non-OC's are over six months.


	7. Return to Sender

Wall of Disclaimers is up on my profile.

In sight of Alex's Fairy Tales, I ended up forgetting about this.

* * *

_Six months ago, London._

Yassen was alive. Alex couldn't believe it. He had so many questions but they would have to wait. All he could do was get them out of the situation. He really thanked the CIA now.

Alex squeezed the soap into the water and shook. If there was one thing he knew, it was that this would be enough to blind someone. Two years ago, he walked into a hotel room and it hit him square in the face. He spent the evening getting the remnants of soap from his eye. Alex pulled out a pen and made a hole in the lid. It wasn't a very strong soap but it wasn't water.

Alex ducked out and shot the man in the face. Soap and water hit him in the eye. Alex had bet the whole thing on the fact it was the guy from the hotel, who wasn't wearing glasses. It was.

"Let's go." Yassen was on his feet pulling Alex away. "My car is nearby." They vanished into the streets of London and a few seconds later a dark unmarked Jaguar pulled into the steady stream of London traffic.

* * *

_Six months ago, London_

Sitting in Yassen's car was a dream and a nightmare. It haunted Alex that this man had died for him but it was a horror that he was alive. The Russian didn't say a word the whole drive. Alex took in the passing street signs. They were heading toward the Soho area.

Of course Yassen would have a place in London, Alex berated himself. They did stop at a building that looked like a high rise apartment building. Yassen got out wordlessly and Alex followed. A short elevator ride later they were at the door of room 618. Floor six, room eighteen.

Yassen hesitated. Alex wondered what had possessed the man to rescue him, one of his more than twenty questions. Yassen silently inserted the key and opened the door.

"Welcome back." A familiar, rail-thin Irishman sat in the chair facing the door.

"Smithers?" Smithers nodded jovially.

"Jones said that she couldn't leave you out there to fend for yourself, so she asked me to get you some covert technology. Don't worry, there are no trackers. She was explicit about that." Smithers grandly gestured to the set up at the table.

"You called me," Yassen said looking straight at Smithers.

"Yes. You were practically impossible to track down Mr. Gregorovich. I had Jones delay the burn for three days to get a hold of you. She was under fire for that." Alex realized he had, despite the past, more than one friend in MI6.

"So what do you have, Father Christmas?" Alex couldn't resist the tease.

"I think you will see a few familiar gadgets." There was the gum pack and coins from Snake Head. An explosive ear stud made Alex glad he didn't let the hole close up. Two phones from Scorpia Rising were also present, except they were now the iPhone 4S. There was the pencil case from Crocodile Tears. (all can be seen in the novels mentioned. Available in hardcover and paperback. Found where books are sold.) Alex guessed all the gadgets were inside too.

The last was one that became known as the Archer Specialty.

It was a box of deluxe collector's edition playing cards. The metal case would unfold into a crossbow like launcher. The case would launch all 52 cards, which were metal reinforced, at the hapless victim. And, you could play a really fun game of poker.

Smithers beamed in pride. "Archer loved this. She said the CIA couldn't do better."

Yassen looked nonplussed by the whole thing. Alex wasn't surprised. The man was used to straight up weaponry not espionage. Smithers held out a film canister and a camera.

"The camera is digital and fires bullets if needed." He opened the film roll.

"Diplomatic immunity stickers, courtesy of Jones. She's quite torn over the whole thing. I have a meeting in a few hours and I have a few last minute changes to make to designs. I brought pizza, meat lovers, if you're hungry." Smithers was already past them and out the door.

"Thank you," Alex called. He heard a faint return of "good luck".

* * *

_Five months ago, Russia._

Alex hefted the weight of the gun. So like Yassen to have a Sig Saur under his pillow.

"Care to explain this?" Yassen shrugged. It was a thoroughly American gesture that showed where he had been hiding out for the better part of the past two years.

"I learnt to be prepared." Alex gave him a disapproving chuckle.

"This business messes you up." They had hidden out in Yassen's mansion for the past month. Yes, yassen had managed, in his time to procure a mansion, a huge villa that sprawled over the Russian wilderness. The plethora of rooms was connected in a confusing labyrinth of halls. All lead, like veins, back to the center atrium, an astronomy tower. Best of all, the circular house had been designed by the great assassin himself. This was the type of setting that most BDSM fan fictions were made of.

A fax started beeping out of the list of people known to be hunting Alex down. The list got longer every day. Yassen, to his credit, had talked many out of it with a scratchy, untraceable phone call in the middle of the night.

Alex glanced at the top of the revised list and groaned.

* * *

_Four months ago, Canada._

Those Mounties were seriously annoying. A chase across Niagara Falls was not part of his ideal vacation. And it all had to do with the stupid Canadian spy that botched up his job. Really, a bullet to the brain was too hard to come by. Yassen was probably off in some casino totally unaware of this. Or maybe if Alex-sense was kicking in, he would swoop in. Or he would feel the danger through the dragon lord bond, and, god, he was watching too much BBC.

Seriously, Alex didn't believe his eyes when one came out from the brush on a moose! A moose! Were they trying to support stereo types? They converged in a horse shoe formation.

Water or men? Water means going over the falls. The men meant either gang rape or death, possibly both since he wasn't MI6 anymore. He had to deal with a whole lot of sick people these past weeks. Some were sicker than others and others were sicker than a hung-over teen.

Alex was ready to jump into the water when the Mounties collapsed in a heap.

One by one they slipped off their mounts. One was barely clinging on in his haze. Alex's foot promptly took care of that. He eyed the pink darts sticking out of their backs.

He regretted making fun on those once. Alex tramped back through the woods and into the city. When Yassen saw him, he didn't remark on it. He just started packing.

On his part, Alex did very well when a knock came at the door and he opened it to find vin de glace and a playing card:

The Queen of Spades.

* * *

_Two months ago, Cuba._

"Where should we go next?" Alex shaded his face watching swimsuit models prancing around in bikinis. Too flimsy and scanty to bother with patterns. He gazed at the toned man beside him. Yassen Gregorovich. In the past three months, they had gotten to know each other well.

Yassen was basking in the warm sun. His skin wasn't even tanned in the spring sun. "I think a tour of Asia would be nice."

Alex nodded letting himself get drawn into a kiss. Warm lips that tasted a little like beer ran across his throat. Filthy, but controlled a precise. Yassen finally released him, panting and craving more, minutes later.

"Want to get back to the room?"

Some would say too well.

* * *

Sorry about that. Sergei gets more time in the coming chapters. There will only be a "landing" chapter written in Syrai's POV. She's rather adamant about the whole thing.


	8. 1000 Words

Wall of Disclaimers is up on my profile.

I ended up forgetting about this.

* * *

I pulled together my bag of essentials. Glancing at the album I decided to take a second look. Nothing interested me. It was filled with photos of me in a swimsuit showing off my abs and my parents acting like a loving couple. I say "acting" because they divorced three months after that. There was no picture of a red dress. I tossed the book into the box with a growl. What were the chances she was in a photo? I could have seen her in a bus or in the hotel lobby. We could have passed anywhere.

I reclined on my bed. The half-packed suitcase lay beside me as I heaved a sigh. What could narrow down the choices or at least help me remember? I pulled out my lap top and typed up a list.

_MY CLUES_

_by Sergei Ivanov_

_Phuket, Thailand - It is the land of a thousand smiles. I have been there on two accounts. Once at fourteen and the other at nineteen. I recall the vacations well. _

_Red dress – Celeste mentioned the girl was wearing this. I have no idea what style it may appear in._

_Girl - My apparent soul mate. I do not know anything about her. She was with me in Phuket. For how long I do not know._

_Elephant statue- It appears in the visions and that leads me to about every temple in Phuket._

_Pagoda of gems – It is supposedly covered in precious stones. Perhaps a temple? _

_Water – It is an island. Need I say more? _

_Snorkling/diving – I have done both. Unlikely, that I saw her from under water._

_James Bond - I have yet to see his role in the proceedings. Celeste mentioned a movie. I wonder which._

_Island - Phuket is surrounded by tiny islands._

I was surprised that my information was of so little. I would have to rely on chance. Damn luck. I couldn't do that. I personally believed that life was out to screw you in every way imaginable.

I finally decided to ask people that I didn't think I would ever speak to again. The first being my father. I picked up a phone and started dialing. He wasn't in the same business. He wasn't in any business. As far as I can recall, he was living off a girl he met. She liked older men. Really older men.

"Who is this?"

"Sergei."

"Sorry, I don't know a…"

"Ivanov." Silence filled the other end.

"So your mother gave up that bastard and is making you to ask for forgiveness?" The cockiness reminded me why I never called him.

"No. I want to know if you have any of the photos from our past vacations." I could hear the sound of Maria or Vanessa or whatever her name was in the back ground.

"Nope. Your mother wouldn't even let me take my pants, remember?" I couldn't forget.

"Good bye." I almost hit the "end call" button, but his voice sounded over the line. It sounded awfully quiet.

"Wait! Tell your mother, I still miss her."

"I will." And she will believe me when hell freezes over.

Next I dialed my mother. I could already imagine the scolding I would get for not calling. I shifted at the dial tone. I was a contractor. I wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything. But I'm afraid of that woman. She was the one who taught me how to use a shot gun to hit a playing card at a hundred paces when I was ten. That just goes to show the type of woman she is.

Did I mention she was the one who introduced me to my trainer? Yep, she got me into the life style.

"Larista Petrov."

"Mother."

"Oh! Sergei! Why haven't you called me? You could have sent an e-letter or whatever that is. I was so worried! Were you involved in the hit last September? I heard everyone involved was dead! And here you are! Are you feeling alright? Are you eating enough? Mommy knows you love a good meal. Stop by soon. You know, Perry doesn't hate you…"

I spent the next five minutes reminding her that if I told her my location I could be killed, telling her I was healthy and reading fake doctors notes to prove it, and assuring her in general that I was alright. Whatever scolding she had for me was gone when I mentioned father.

"Don't believe a thing that son of a bitch says! I hate him and he hates me. He only wanted a cute ass and when I wasn't pretty, he dumped me. Forget that we had three children together! Sure one was a miscarriage but we had two living children! Forget the twelve years of marriage! (Note that I was fourteen at the time of their divorce. That says something, doesn't it?) He is a selfish bastard who should burn in HELL!" I let mother rant for another few minutes.

"Yes, I'm sure that is all out of your system," I ventured after she stopped. She breathed heavily after her outburst. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and the devil cowers if she hath a frying pan.

"Do you have any photos from our vacations? Specifically, the ones to Phuket?" A hum came from the other line.

"Yes. They are in the garage. Or the attic. Really, Sergei, you should stop by and help me clean up."

"Sorry, Mother, I need those photos." I paused for a second. I wasn't sure if I could rely on her.

"I'll see if I can get them. Are you going to get them or…" She trailed off. I gave her the number of a post office. She could leave it there and I would pick it up as soon as I could. She chuckled that I was always prepared for something like that.

"Only if you see a girl in the photo."

"That describes everyone! You and your girlfriend were inseparable."

"No the girl is in the back ground. She wears a red dress and has dark hair. Remember that."

"Is it work? She showed up at work didn't she? Crazy girl chasing after you. That reminds me, what happened to Jessica?"

"She got married to someone else." And I was glad of it. "Just send them to me okay?"

I hung up before she could rope me in to having dinner with them. No matter what she says, I know Perry hates me. I doesn't help that he is younger than me by three months. Really, I think it pisses him off.

I punched in another little dialed number.

"Feliks." A young voice travelled over the line.

"It is I, Sergei," I muttered.

"Oh, big bro. I was wonderin' why you stood up that chick I sent over a few nights ago." This was why I never talked to him. He always tried to set me up with a pretty girl saying I needed more fun.

"I didn't stand her up. She never arrived."

"Oh, shit. You moved?"

"Yes."

"Damn. Give me your new address."

"No."

"What do you want then?"

"Phuket, ten years ago, do you remember a girl with black hair?"

"Dude, that was a long time ago." I hated American Reality television. They ruined the human mind with words like "dude".

"Do you remember?" There was a head scratch on the other end.

"Hmm… I don't recall really. Any details?"

"Red."

"Oh, I have it!" I heard a few excited laughs from the other end. He was playing Tetris wasn't he?

"Back to you, I do recall something. There was a girl about my age. She wasn't hard on the eyes, but her sister. Younger, but she was hot."

"How do you remember that?"

"You know that thing I had for brunettes all of secondary school?" That was because of them."

"Photos?"

"Yeah. Fluttering skirts and all that. I'll drop it off." I gave him the post office address and he groaned.

"Nothing get's past you. Why the sudden interest? Did she show up at work?" Why did everyone assume that girls I met showed up at my workplace?

"No and drop it off."

"Whateva. If you two hook up, I wanna watch." I can personally assure all readers that not all Russians are like my brother.

I hung up with one word. "Never."

* * *

I apologize.


	9. Content to Chase

Wall of Disclaimers is up.

* * *

_Now, Phuket._

Alex breathed in the chilled air of the airport. Just moments ago, he had gotten off a plane from Taipei. They had spent the first week in Japan and Korea alternately fighting ninjas and assassins. The second week had been a tour of China, a really lovely place he didn't get to enjoy last time. He spared a glance to one of the many mirrors in the arrival terminal. He looked different than he had.

He looked healthier now. There was a faint tan on his skin that hadn't been before. The bags under his eyes from late night stake outs had faded. His cheeks had a lively, ruddy color. His hair was no longer limp but glossy and sticking up all over. His eyes were back to their striking brown and no longer blood shot. The last half year of running (and hiding) had built up some muscle. Yassen insisted that they go running every morning and stuck to his Spartan regimen, where ever they went.

Speak of the devil, Yassen strode across the room, dragging their luggage with him. There were only two medium sized bags. Most of the time, Alex had an extra set of clothes and gadgets in his. Everything else was disposable.

"I have a cab." Yassen was gesturing to the man waving frantically at them. Somehow, they arrived at rush hour and their driver was getting ready to get going.

"Are we going to face the same problems as last time?" Alex hefted his duffel over his shoulder. It was heavier than when he left London. Somehow, in their travels, he picked up things.

Yassen replied with a tone only slightly warmer than the room, "No, the driver and his wife are very happy together." Alex nodded. He didn't need to explain the random cab driver who thought it a good idea to be acquainted with Alex's pants. Yassen hadn't thought it a good idea either.

Someone had ended up in the A&E.

* * *

Alex took a deep breath of air conditioned air. He had forgotten why tropical countries always had air-conditioning. It was a sauna outside. He and his long sleeved shirt didn't stand a chance. Yassen, in his thin t-shirt, gave him a pitying look and proceeded to check in. Alex took that time to recline on a firm, but not quite uncomfortable, chair.

The hotel was richer looking than the last one. The staircase was made of solid marble for one and the columns that supported the high ceiling were gilded. Beyond the lobby, there was a bar that started its jazz set already. A woman was practicing something that sounded like creamy Italian. Everything seemed to be brightly colored though. The walls were a vibrant orange and covered in multi-color paintings. The floor rug under his feet was a royal blue color and gold edging. The hotel didn't seem any grander than the ones around it on the outside. That was somewhat comforting.

There was a tap on his shoulders. Yassen's eyes flicked from him, to the street. Alex understood and kept his face hidden from the windows all the way to the elevators.

* * *

"Yassen, I'll need some new sneakers." Yassen grunted in return. He was busy catalogueing his own belongings. They had already bomb and bug searched the whole room.

Unsurprisingly, it was clear of both. Definitely a step up from the last place they stayed though.

Alex had picked up many things in his bag along the way. When landing, he would always clean it out and take log of what he would need to replace. Alex unpacked his things taking time to treasure the memories of all that was in there.

He had a photo of his parents, something form London. After, there was a plastic shot glass from Rio. Underneath was a shawl from India, something he bought from a lady who tried to kill him later. France had given him a copper Eiffel tower and a round of bruises, all faded by now. A souvenir shell from Cuba was natural as the maracas from Mexico. He bought one of those Japanese manga in Akihabara. There was a poster from a concert he went to in Korea.

Alex had a plastic poncho from "the Maid of the Mist" in Toronto. He did get what looked like a mancala board from Morroco. He could never be sure if the chips were from using it to deflect bullets or were already there. The colored marbles were long lost but for a good reason. A small rock from Yassen's cabin found its way into the collection. That was something he would never admit to.

Suddenly, it didn't feel he was so much running as he was going on a tour of the world. And in a way it was. He was still fighting off people who tried to kill him but he spent more time being a tourist doing tourist things.

He spied the last thing in the bag. It was a playing card, left at the bottom of his bag since fleeing Canada. He hadn't thought about it since then.

Alex rustled through all the gadgets and loose immunity stickers. He picked up the deck of cards Smithers had given him.


End file.
